


The Open Door

by crystalsoulslayer



Category: Doctor Who
Genre: F/M, Gratuitous Smut, Light Bondage, Sad Ending, Topping from the Bottom, because these idiots don't know how to have real conversations, the doctor gets overemotional
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-03
Updated: 2017-06-03
Packaged: 2018-11-08 08:14:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,511
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11077587
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crystalsoulslayer/pseuds/crystalsoulslayer
Summary: For the first time in who knows how long, they’re together, but the Doctor is having trouble trusting her again. Missy makes him an unexpected offer to help with that. Filth, set after the encounter in the graveyard, but before the Doctor goes looking for Gallifrey.





	The Open Door

**Author's Note:**

  * For [FernDavant](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FernDavant/gifts).



On meeting the Doctor, many people remark on how calm he is in dangerous situations. He’s really not calm at all. He’s just very good at pretending to be.

If you know him, though, you can spot the signs. The way his eyes dart toward the sources of slight sounds – the climate control system kicking on, the subdued whirr of a hovertram on its way past the window. His shoulders are tense, drawn up a little. And his feet are slightly too far apart, at slightly different angles, one just in front of the other. Ready to run, ready to fight.

Missy knows him, and knows him well. It’s been a long time for both of them, but much longer for him than her. Longer and lonelier. Even when they thought Gallifrey was gone, she’d had him, but for a long time, he’d had nothing at all. Wondering whether he’s followed the coordinates she gave him yet, she takes one of his hands delicately, brings it to her mouth, kisses his knuckles. His breath is already uneven, and it only gets more so. Another little kiss to the back of his hand, and his whole arm twitches reflexively away. She doesn’t release his hand.

“Missy,” he says plaintively, making her smile, “I didn’t mean to.”

“I know. Has anyone touched you?”

“Not… like that. Not since, er. Er.”

“What?”

He casts his eyes down – it’s a good look – and says quietly, “I can’t remember.”

“Was it River?”

“Yes. I just don’t know how long ago it was.” She squeezes his hand gently, and he asks, “You know about River?”

Missy releases his hand at last, starts ushering the jacket off of his shoulders. “Yeah, I’ve met her a few times. She’s way more fun than you are.” He chuckles a little. With his jacket successfully removed, Missy smooths her hands over his shoulders. He starts a bit, but she doesn’t pull away, just rests her palms over his collarbones. When he’s still and his breathing, though fast, is even, she lets one move across his chest, rubbing in slow, large, warm circles. “Sit down,” she says, guiding him toward the edge of the bed.

He sits. She stands between his knees, hands wandering over his upper body. His hands, she notices, are stationary, gripping the bedspread with white knuckles.

She takes his hands, tugs until he lets go of the fabric, and guides them to her waist. He doesn’t move them, even when she undoes the top three buttons of his shirt, tugging it out of his waistband. “Missy,” he says hoarsely. His eyes are closed, his back is stiff as a board, and he’s shaking.

“What are you scared of?”

“You.”

She pulls him in, cradles his head against her shoulder as she pulls up the back of his shirt. He about jumps out of his skin when she slips a hand under it and caresses his bare back. “ _Missy,_ please, oh, Missy, I can’t. I can’t, I’m sorry—“

“Shh, it’s all right. I’m not going to hurt you.”

She holds him that way for a bit, moving her hand up and down his spine, telling him to relax, it’s all right. “You can touch me, too,” she reminds him, when he seems a little calmer. She feels one hand move around to the small of her back, drift up slightly, then down, and up. Hesitantly, like he’s still not sure it’s safe.

“I don’t like your jacket,” he says quietly.

She chuckles and says, “Lean back against the headboard.” She’d like to strip him some more, but he’s liable to combust if she does that. He pulls his shoes off and does as she says, in the most awkward way possible – sitting entirely on a pillow, his back still straight as a steel rod, legs drawn up toward his chest.

Lord. What is she going to do with him?

The answer, apparently, is crawl up next to him and start giving instructions. Scoot forward, a little more, lean forward while she stacks some pillows behind him. Move forward a little more, a little more. Lean back and relax, lower those legs, more, straighten his knees.

“Why?” he asks, for the first time.

“Humor me,” she says, and he does. “Good,” she tells him, and straddles his hips.

“Oh,” he says, voice gone hoarse again.

One hand on his chest, the other toying with his neck, just at the edge of the skin exposed by his open collar. He takes a series of gasping breaths, his whole body jumping beneath her a few times. She kisses him, then, sweetly, gently, and he whimpers against her mouth. Poor thing. She can’t believe she used to be rough with him, before.

His arms are crossed over his abdomen, each of his hands gripping the opposite bicep tightly. “You can still touch me,” she reminds him.

“I don’t like your jacket,” he says again. His whole body shivers, and he bites his lip.

All right, that’s easy to fix. She leans back so he can see while she unbuttons it, takes it off, drops it on the floor by his shoes. Still hesitant, he reaches out with one hand, pauses, looks at her. “Go on.” His hand rests on her upper arm, delicately at first and then more firmly, and she can actually _see_ his pupils dilate, ever-so-slightly. He glides up her bicep to her shoulder, over her chest.

When he passes over her corset, though, he frowns and pulls his hand away, tries lower, lower still, then up her side. His frown deepens and he announces, “I don’t like your shirt, either.”

She laughs aloud at that. “You can take it off, then. Time you did some work here.”

He grins sheepishly for a split second, and he reaches out to her top button. Only he sees her brooch, the one he gave her, and yanks his hands back to his own chest abruptly. Tense as a snapping cable. “I can’t,” he whispers.

Missy strokes his hair sympathetically, takes it off herself, sets it on the nightstand, and then he can. With some difficulty. According to him, it’s _much_ harder to undo buttons backwards. He gets the hang of it, though, not even looking at the skin or the corset he exposes as he does; his focus is solely on the next button, the next task. He blinks in a dazed sort of way when he realizes he’s finished the last one, and his mouth falls open as she takes her shirt off and discards it.

He doesn’t touch her this time. She puts her hands back where they were, one on his chest, one stroking the skin of his throat. A few more kisses, one to the corner of his open mouth and the rest to his jaw. Still no movement from his hands. “Touch me,” she says, almost a whisper. “It’s okay, Doctor, it’s safe. I promise.”

When he touches her, it’s the back of her hand, not the skin only recently exposed. With her encouragement, he skates up past her wrist to her upper arm; apparently he likes it there, because he wraps his fingers around her bicep and makes a soft, needy sound before lifting his head up toward her. She kisses him, more firmly than before, and he responds in kind. Another needy little noise – she loves that noise, she wants him to make it more – and his other hand captures hers, the one that had been lingering over his throat. His hips buck up under her, and she hums in approval.

The Doctor finally starts exploring the new skin of her shoulders and upper back, though he’s either unwilling or unable to release the hand he’s trapped in his own. He’s trembling, her poor love, apparently still terrified.

When his explorations reach her hair, the result is a sequence of wonderful sounds: a delighted gasp, then a frustrated grunt, and finally a desperate, keening whine as he paws uselessly at her updo. She quiets him, quickly, in case he starts pulling her hair, and says, “There’s a pin, love, just feel around for it.”

He gives it a go for a whole three seconds before thumping his fist against the mattress. He squeezes her hand, hard enough to be painful. Evidently, he’s given up, because he then resumes touching her skin.

His eyes have filled with tears. That won’t do at all.

She reaches up herself and shows him, holds the pin out for him to see. He examines it briefly, drops it, and then his hand is back in her hair, feeling around with more purpose now he has a better idea what he’s looking for. Missy tilts her head for him, picks up the pin he dropped. All focus now, like with the buttons before. He’s good at this. It only takes a second at most once he finds a pin, then he’s deposited it in her hand and is on to the next. Only there are a couple at the back of her head he can’t quite get to.

“Let me turn around,” she says, and starts to do just that. When she leans away, he redoubles his grip on her hand and reaches around her with his other arm, yanking her back. It doesn’t hurt, but she’s genuinely startled by his forcefulness. “Doctor, did you hear me?”

He blinks, looks at her uncertainly.

“Doctor?”

He nods, but doesn’t say anything.

“I’m just turning around, so you can reach the pins in the back,” she says gently. “I’m not leaving.” She tries again, but he won’t let go of her hand. “My hand, Doctor.”

He squeezes it nervously, biting his lip again. He won’t meet her eyes. Still scared.

“I’m not going to hurt you.”

The Doctor releases her with palpable reluctance. She turns around successfully, sitting between his legs instead of astride them. He removes the last two pins, and she hands him the rest. He drops them on the nightstand next to her brooch. Before the last one has finished clattering against the hardwood, his hands are in her hair, stroking it, coiling it around his fingers. He sits up, his legs tighten around her, and he buries his nose in her hair.

Then her hearts break a little, because he’s actually started whimpering, as if he’s in pain. The Doctor wraps his arms around her from behind and is breathing deeply of her scent, fingers stroking at any skin they can find while he nuzzles at her hair, her ear, her cheek. Her neck, too, when he works his way down that far, and suddenly he’s kissing there, scraping gently with his teeth and licking at her, and the whole while he’s been gasping and whimpering. Her shoulder, now, and the whimpering is replaced by whispers –

“Missy. Oh, Missy. Master? Master, Master. Warm, you’re warm, you’re here, you’re real, you’re warm, so warm, Master, Master, my Master, really here, you’re real. _Master_.“

\--and it’s all Missy can do not to break free of him and push him down and, and something. Kiss him, hold him, anything, anything to make him feel better.

She rests a hand on his knee instead, and he yelps, squeezing her compulsively closer. “No,” he gasps. “No, no, please. Please, not yet. Please.”

“What?”

“Not yet, please, I’m not – please. Please. Master, please, anything. I can’t.”

“You can’t what?”

“Please, you’re so close, so warm and real, please don’t. Please not yet. Just a little longer.”

“A little longer before what?”

“Before you hurt me.” His voice cracks alarmingly. “Please. Please, you’re real, you’re so warm and solid and – please? Anything, Master. Missy. Master. Just a little longer. Please?”

“I told you, Doctor, I’m not going to hurt you.”

“You will. You always do. It’s okay, that’s okay, but can we wait? Can I just… can I…”

“Yes. You can, it’s all right.” She doesn’t really know what he’s asking for, but whatever it is, he can have it. “What should I do?”

He buries his nose in her hair again, and she feels his fingertips wander over her chest.

“Doctor? Do you need anything from me?”

“Your skin,” he whispers. “Please, it’s warm. I don’t – I don’t like this thing, can I take that off, too?” He taps the hem of her corset.

“Of course.”

He immediately starts fumbling with its buttons, but can’t get any of them free.

“The laces, love.”

The Doctor doesn’t seem to hear her. He scrabbles at the buttons with mounting panic until she feels compelled to still his hands.

“ _No!_ Please, you said I could, I can’t get them to move –“

“I know.” She pulls his hands up to her throat, figuring her skin might comfort him. “It’s all right, Doctor.”

“You can hurt me,” he says, desperately. “Is that what you want? Will you let me touch if I let you –“

“Doctor, _stop._ ”

He makes a helpless little keening noise and collapses around her, pulls her tightly against himself, even wrapping his legs around hers. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I’m sorry, please don’t make me stop. I’m sorry. I won’t ask for anything else.”

“Shhh, hush a moment. Just listen.”

“Okay.”

“You’re listening?”

“Yes.”

“You have to undo the laces first, Doctor, on the back of the corset. The buttons will be too taut to move until you do.”

“…I can take it off?”

“Yep.” She feels him lean back, just enough to give himself access. He fumbles briefly with the laces, and the corset loosens up at the bottom. “There you go. Keep working up.” He does, pulling a bit harder than is perhaps strictly necessary. She finds his urgency both slightly alarming and highly arousing. When it feels loose enough to work with, Missy tells him to try the buttons again.

He makes quick work of them. This time, he doesn’t wait for her to take it off on his behalf; the moment the last button is undone, he pulls the corset away from her and then throws it across the room vehemently. “Can I touch? You can hurt me.”

“I won’t hurt you, Doctor. Yes, you can touch.”

Hesitantly, at first, but with increasing abandon, he touches her. Light strokes, then firm rubs, until he’s sucking powerfully at her neck and more or less groping her.

It’s lovely, all told. Missy’s very happy to relax against him, rest her head on his shoulder, and let him take what he needs. After a few minutes, she reaches up absently and puts her hand in his hair. He gives a little jump, startled, and she grins. “Sorry. Should have warned you.”

“What are you doing?” he asks nervously.

“Nothing sinister. I just love your hair. It’s good for petting.” Probably for pulling, too, but she can wait for that.

“Are you going to hurt me now?”

“No, Doctor. As I keep telling you, I’m not going to.”

“I said it’s okay, I just, er, I’d like to… know. Before.”

“I won’t be rough unless you ask me to, okay? Promise.” She runs her hand down to the back of his neck, teases the hair at his nape, then buries her fingers in his curls again. His whole body twitches behind her, and next thing she knows, he’s grabbed that hand by the wrist, none too gently. “Doctor?”

“Please. I’m sorry, it’s too much. Please, Missy, you, and that, and – and I can’t – it feels good but I keep thinking you’re going to –“

“I won’t hurt you.”

“ _Stop saying that_.” He actually shakes her a little, then whimpers, collapses around her again. It occurs to her that she’s more naked than he is, which doesn’t usually happen when they’re together. “Sorry. I’m sorry. So much has happened, Missy, I was – you – I was _alone_. I was alone, for so long, Master, you could have regenerated but you left me alone. You left me alone, you left me, you _left_ me, all that time I was alone when I could have had you –“

“Doctor, everything that happened then, the Valiant, Harold Saxon, that was –“

“Master, please, don’t, please –“

“I have to. When they resurrected me, they used me. They brought me back in the body of a child, to make me easier to control. They gave me orders, impossible ones, tasks that no one could complete, and punished me when I couldn’t find a way to make them work. I was desperate. I did things –“ She swallows, turns her face into his neck.

“I’m a monster, Doctor. I know that. But if I had a choice, I would never have done half of what they made me do. But I did it. And the only way I could reconcile it to myself was to think, I’m saving Gallifrey. For once, I’m _saving_ something. And I thought you’d destroyed it.” She kisses his jaw gently, and her next words are spoken against his skin. “But I understand now. I understand why you thought you had to, and now I know you saved it. You saved _me_ , even if you didn’t know it.”

She brings one hand up to cover his, where it’s cupping her breast. He twitches, but doesn’t pull away or say anything. “I’d never been that angry with you before, and I never will be again. I will never let you become that hopeless again. I will not leave you alone again. _I am not going to hurt you_ , Doctor.”

She lets the words rest in the air. She’s never told anyone that, never even said it out loud to herself, barely even thought about it. But now he knows. That’s good, right? It’s _good_ that he knows. Everything about her is screaming that she shouldn’t have told him, because now he knows, oh, god, he _knows_ , what is he going to do now that he knows?

Apparently, the answer is “nothing.” He sits in silence, perfectly still, for a solid minute.

“I know they’re only words, Doctor, but they’re true.”

He finally moves, just to adjust his grip on her wrist slightly. “You know how I feel about words,” he croaks.

Yes, she does. He’s never trusted them, especially not from other Time Lords. He prefers actions. The trouble is that, now, he needs her not to hurt him. She needs to show him the _absence_ of an action. How the hell is she supposed to do that? Even if she doesn’t hurt him, continues to not hurt him, there will always be the potential for her to do so. The potential is what terrifies him.

Ah. We have a solution: remove the potential.

Missy kisses his jawline again, and presses a couple more to his throat. Then she takes a deep breath, steadies herself. She can’t keep the trembling out of her voice, though, when she asks, “Would you like to tie me up?”

“Tie… _you_ up? Why?”

“You don’t believe me. If I’m tied up, I can’t hurt you, can I? Even if I wanted to, which I don’t.” Well, she does a little bit. She’s funny like that. No plans to act on it, though. She does have some semblance of self-control.

“You hate being tied up.”

“Generally, yes, but I hate seeing you like this a lot more.”

“You’re serious?”

“Of course.”

He rubs his cheek against hers a few times, in an absent-minded sort of way. “Do you, er. I mean, did you bring something? For that?”

She grins. “Of course. There are cuffs in my jacket.”

“For me, I assume.”

“They were. Change of plan. Shall we?”

“Er. I’ll, er, I can get them. And you just… just stay here? Okay?”

She agrees. He scoots around her, not releasing her until the last possible second, and practically leaps to his feet when he does. Missy stretches her arms, rolls her shoulders a bit, very aware as she does that he’s staring at her. Pretending not to notice, she starts running her hands through her hair, but otherwise stays put. It takes him a bit longer to find the cuffs than is _strictly_ necessary, partly because her pockets are bigger on the inside, and partly because he stops and stares at her for a second if she moves her hands too much.

When he finally finds them, he approaches her unsteadily. “Where do you want me?” she asks.

“I was thinking, the headboard?” he suggests. So uncertain, off his footing.

Missy resists an urge to sit right up next to it, the way he’d done, and lies back with her arms above her head. The headboard is more or less perfect for this sort of thing – a grid of welded steel tubing, some kind of industrial aesthetic. It’s why she chose this hotel, though she was naturally planning on him being the one in the cuffs. Never mind. This should be fine, right? He’s not like her, he doesn’t _like_ hurting people. It’s fine. He’s just scared of her, and he’s not going to do anything to hurt her. He wouldn’t do that. He’s the Doctor.

The Doctor’s hands are shaking as he buckles the first one, loops it around the steel, buckles the other. They’re too tight, and she’s just about to mention that when he realizes it himself and adjusts them. It takes him a couple of tries, bless him. When he can easily fit two fingers between the fleece lining and her skin, he asks, “Okay?”

Missy tests their strength, finds them very solid indeed – does he really find this _pleasant?_ – and takes a few deep breaths to keep her voice steady. “Yeah, that’s fine.”

She tries to relax as best she can, which is not very well at all, and smiles up at him. His expression is very odd, caught somewhere between terror and longing. He sits next to her and says, “Really, we don’t have to. If you don’t want to. Just let me know if you want to take them off.”

“I will.”

“So you’re okay?”

“Of course I am.” She gives him another smile, and makes her best attempt at a casual stretch, pretending she’s comfortable this way. She isn’t. Missy is fundamentally opposed to being restrained; she’ll put up with it temporarily, if it’s needed for a plan, but the only other time she’s allowed someone to cuff her like this was before they left Gallifrey. At least it was the Doctor then, too. It wasn’t frightening back then, but so much has happened since, he’s hurt her, and she’s hurt him, and – she’s hurt him, and he has a chance to hurt her back, and she probably couldn’t actually get out of these cuffs, and even if she could she’s not sure she wouldn’t just _let him_ –

“Is it okay to touch you?”

Missy rolls her eyes theatrically. “Of course it is. That’s the purpose of this entire exercise.” He bites his lip a little, and she says gently, “I’m sorry, my dear. I forget you aren’t used to this.”

The Doctor nods. “Did we do this? Before?”

“Yeah, we did. Neither of us found it particularly enjoyable, as I recall.”

“Do you want me to take them off? I just, er, I was, er, I was scared. That’s all.”

“I know, Doctor. It’s all right.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yeah. Come here, it’s all right. How does a kiss sound?”

“Like a lot of weird sucking noises,” he replies, and she laughs. He sits next to her, leans down, and gives her a kiss. Her hands twitch reflexively, wanting to bury themselves in his hair, but they can’t. That’s fine. That’s not what he needs right now. He needs her mouth, her skin, needs calm and kindness and safety. Surely she can manage that.

The kiss is over much too soon, and she says so. He grins, kisses her again, more thoroughly. With a little encouragement, he lays his hand on her side, over her ribs. From then on, his hands never stop stroking and squeezing and roaming, gentle but urgent, like his kisses. Apart from her inability to touch him, it’s not too bad, really. Even that is manageable, because he’d jumped at her touch before, and this way, she doesn’t have to remind herself not to. He’s definitely calmer.

“Is your neck okay, too?”

“For what?”

“Feels good on my mouth.”

She smiles. “Yes, Doctor, you can kiss anywhere you like.”

He presses his lips to her throat, almost reverently, and she turns her head to give him better access. He exhales sharply at that, and suddenly his mouth is _everywhere._ Her neck, her shoulders, back up to her neck, and a long, firm kiss to her lips. She returns it enthusiastically, and he lies down along her side, wraps his arms around her, holding her and kissing. She tests his mouth with her tongue, and he responds with his own, accompanied by a soft sound.

His leg wraps over her waist, and now he’s straddling her, mouth roaming over her chest. His hips, she notices, are rocking gently, and she says, “We can take some of this off, you know. Might feel better that way.”

“Good idea.” He sits up, takes off his trousers, his boxers, and, when she prompts him, his shirt. He’s long-limbed and wiry, soft only around his belly and his thighs. _Stick insect_ , she thinks, and smiles. “What are you grinning at?”

“You. I like the new body. If the wind catches you at the right angle, does it make a sort of whistly noise?”

“Shush,” he says, but he’s smiling, too. So much more relaxed, now her hands have been put away. “I don’t like your skirts, by the way.”

“Better take them off, then.”

He does, with gusto. She has to arch and wiggle the whole way through, and neither of them can help their laughter. “Can I touch your legs?”

“I’d be disappointed if you didn’t.”

He does not disappoint. He’s careful about it, though, looking up at her occasionally, making sure she’s still smiling, and probably making sure she’s still in the cuffs, as well. After a moment of paddling his fingers in her thighs, he pauses, tilts his head.

“Something wrong?”

“You said, when I asked if I could kiss your neck. You said anywhere.”

“Yes, I did.”

He looks at her, and the expression on his face – pure, all-consuming _longing_. She’s seen that so many times over the years, but until now, only when _he’s_ the one tied to something. It occurs to her, at this point, that she’s still very much the one in charge. The cuffs being on her wrists instead of his make him feel safe; they don’t make him any less submissive to her.

Slowly, with a little smile, Missy parts her legs for him.

She can feel his breaths panting out against her skin. Slowly, deliberately, he brushes his lips against her thigh, and looks up at her to make sure it’s okay. “Go on, then,” she says.

He kisses again, more firmly. Again, and again, moving toward her inner thighs. He scoots closer to her, wraps one arm around so her knee is resting on his shoulder, her calf down his back. For a minute or so, he rests against her and nuzzles gently, apparently enjoying the way her skin feels against his cheek; he then resumes mouthing at her, kissing, a few gentle nibbles here and there.

A harder bite, which he soothes with his tongue, and she moans. “Good,” she breathes. He does it again, and again, moving up a little each time. He kisses her hip, and Missy arches up a bit in anticipation. When his lips return to her skin, though, they’re not on her cunt, they’re on her other thigh. “You bastard,” she says fondly, and he laughs.

“Thought this side might feel left out,” the Doctor says. “Don’t want you getting jealous of yourself. It’d be a terrible mess.”

“Might be quite funny, actually. Skip to the best bit and let’s find out.”

His smile falters a bit. “Do I have to?” he asks. A hint of worry there, just enough to let Missy know he’s asking seriously.

“Oh, it’s all right,” Missy replies.

“I will, er, do that, if you want. The best bit, I mean. I just – the, er, the, this.” He rests his cheek against her skin again. “You feel good.”

“Thanks,” Missy says. “That’s fine, Doctor. You go ahead.”

He smiles and starts working his way up once more, slowly. Little kisses, the occasional lick, moving back down now and again to frustrate her. Teasing, just a little, and Missy realizes something – it’s new. The Doctor has never been able to tease her like this. She’s always, at the very least, given him instructions, and she’s never been particularly patient about when she tells him to go down on her. She kind of likes it, the frustration of his mouth not on her when she wants it there, and the mounting anticipation of what it will feel like when it is.

So close, now. She looks down herself, looks at him, watches him kiss his way closer and closer to her. He looks up at her, meets her eyes for a moment. His pupils are enormous, his hair’s a mess. He looks down again, leans in, slowly, so slowly, brushes his lips delicately against hers. She barely feels it, he’s so gentle. He does it again, licks his lips, again, again. Another lick of his lips, and he’s a bit firmer now.

She lets her head fall back, sighs. Again, about the same, and the next is firmer still. That’s good, that’s _properly_ good, and she moans her appreciation. He decides he likes that level of pressure, or has concluded that it’s what she wants, and keeps doing it, kisses in abundance. She looks at him, and his eyes are closed, he’s relaxed, maybe even smiling a little. She’d quite like to pet him, but can’t, and tells him instead, “That’s good, that feels good.”

“More?”

“Yes,” Missy replies, rocks her hips a little. He’s not doing it any harder now, but he _is_ using his tongue, slow, broad licks across her, each one punctuated by a kiss. _Fuck_ , it’s good. He pushes his tongue inside her, makes an inquisitive noise. “ _Yes,_ ” Missy says again. And he’s doing that, now, as well, runs his tongue over her from her opening to just graze her clit, a kiss to that swollen flesh, returns to her opening and works his tongue inside a few times, back over her, back to her clit, repeat.

It’s unutterably good, but not quite enough. When he kisses the next time, she bucks her hips up at him, and he laughs, seals his mouth around her, and sucks gently.

“Oh, ohhh, _yes, yes, good._ Yes. Don’t stop, ohh, that’s good…” She feels it, it’s coming, _she’s_ coming. It’s great, maybe because of all that anticipation. Pleasure, building rapidly, a sharp spike, and the sudden release. She feels her own pulse against his mouth, her legs twitching, toes curling.

She looks down at him, when she’s able, and finds that he’s watching her intently, sitting up on his elbows so he can see her face. “Can I do it more?” he asks quietly.

“Not just yet. Come here, I want to taste myself on your lips.”

He eases her shaking legs off his shoulders and crawls up to her. The way he kisses her this time is different – hungrier, not so reserved. It’s fantastic. She doesn’t need to remind him to use his hands. Within thirty seconds, he’s wrapped one arm around her, holding her close, their chests pressing together, and his other hand is roaming freely.

Something brushes against her thigh, and the Doctor starts, whimpers, pulls back for a moment. “Sorry,” he says, breathless, adjusts himself. “Sorry. There.” He resumes kissing her.

The next time he breaks away, she says, “It’s fine if you want to.”

“Want to what?”

“It’s not going to burn me. I know it feels good.”

His confused little frown turns into a look that vaguely resembles panic as he realizes what she means. “Oh, it’s, er. It’s not _for_ … that, I just, it. Er. It was there, is all. I wasn’t trying to.”

“That’s all right, too.”

“I like being close,” he whispers, avoiding her eyes.

“I know. This is for you, remember? Come here, it’s okay.”

The kissing resumes, slower, more gently, and he eases his lower body closer. His leg settles carefully between hers. Closer, closer. His erection rests against her leg, and his whole body twitches; he makes a soft, pleased sound, makes it again when Missy crosses her leg over his. Her hearts ache for him. He wasn’t lying – it’s not pleasure he’s after, it’s intimacy. Contact, skin against skin. Missy wishes her hands were free, wants to touch him, hold him, give him more _._

He deserves more. He deserves _everything_.

The Doctor breaks the kiss again, wiggles himself closer still, thanks her breathlessly. “You’re welco – “

He interrupts her, of course, and she laughs into his mouth. And she gets an idea.

She bends her left knee, just slightly, pressing her thigh a little more firmly against his cock. Pleasure isn’t his main goal here, of course, but that doesn’t mean she can’t give it to him. He gasps for a split second, continues the kiss.

A little more, then. She lets her leg back down for a moment, brings it back up. Further this time. He shudders, moans, startles away and then presses harder against her. She does it again.

“You’re doing that on purpose,” he accuses.

“Uh-huh.”

“Why?”

“To make you feel good,” she replies. Down, and up. Repeat. Nice and slow.

It’s incredible, the effect something so minor has on him. Inside of thirty seconds, he’s dripping against her, his whole body trembling slightly, his face buried against her neck. And, best of all –

“Please. Please, _oh_ , thank you, please. Don’t stop, please, please, feels so good, warm, please, Missy, more, don’t stop, don’t stop, don’t stop – “

Missy notes with great interest that he’s not thrusting against her. Letting her do it, letting her give what she will give.

Gradually, his begging changes tone. He’s gone from trembling to outright shaking, all over, and his voice shakes, too, higher and softer and _helpless_. “So good, Missy, more. More, please, please, Missy, more, please more, please, more, more…”

Getting frustrated, then. Missy indulges him, just a bit, moves higher, faster. He’s started thanking her again, babbles it over and over and over. Must be close.

She smirks, lets her leg drop to the bed, leaves it there.

The Doctor keens at the loss, shudders powerfully. But he doesn’t move, doesn’t try to relieve his frustration himself. And after a few long, breathless moments, he presses a light kiss to her collarbone. “Thank you,” he says.

She turns her head enough to kiss his temple and says, “You’re welcome. Good?”

“Perfect,” he replies, thanks her again. “How did you know I didn’t want to, er…?”

“I always know,” she says.

“You’d have done it anyway.”

“Might have. Depends on my mood.”

“And what is that now?”

“Well, currently, I’m in the mood to have you inside me.”

He takes a sharp, short breath.

“Would you like that, too? You can finish, this time. I want to see your face when you do.”

“Yes,” he answers, hoarse. “Please. Yes.”

The Doctor settles between her legs. He’s still hard, still dripping, his breath coming in panting fits and starts between his lips. God, he wants her. Good. She wants him, too, hopes he won’t be too delicate about it. Missy considers simply ordering him to be rough, but decides against it. This is for him; she’s cuffed for him, to make him feel safe with her. Let him decide, let him have what he needs. He didn’t like the army, but this is a gift he can accept.

His lips capture hers, and she remembers that kiss he gave her in the graveyard. She’d kissed him before that, of course, overexcited about seeing him again. But that didn’t count, not really, not when he hadn’t known who she was. But _he’d_ kissed _her_ , in front of Clara and everybody. She did something right, she supposes, in all that mess. Progress.

He’s sucking at her neck, getting himself into position. Lining up, the tip of him hot against her, and at last, at _last,_ he eases inside. She moans her appreciation, rolls her hips. The Doctor isn’t rough, but that’s okay. Turn down the army, accept the kiss. He hasn’t mentioned the coordinates, but he’ll follow them soon enough, all the way to the end of time – that’s when they first saw each other, after the War. That’s when she screwed up. Fitting, for an apology.

“Kiss me,” she tells him, breathlessly, because she needs to. Is this what they are now? No armies, no duels, no stakes. Just his lips on hers, the slow strong rhythm of him inside her. God, he feels good, even if it’s not quite like she imagined. She’s not hurting him, he’s not hurting her. She could get used to this.

Missy tugs at her cuffs, overwhelmed by the sudden need to hold him, touch him. She can be gentle, that’s fine. It’s what he needs. Missy can give him an army, she can give him this.

“Hold on,” he says, and he pauses, moves up over her. What’s he doing? He’s not moving, not kissing her, which is annoying. It’s more than annoying, it’s the worst thing that’s ever happened, he’s slipped out of her and no amount of grappling his waist with her legs is bringing him back—

—but, oh, one of her wrists has just come free. He was unbuckling the cuffs. She doesn’t have the patience to sit still while he undoes the other one. “No,” she says, as he reaches for it. She brings her hands to his shoulders, his chest, his arms, anywhere, everywhere. No fingernails, nothing rough. Just his skin against her hands. She doesn’t have to pause and assess the damage, because she’s not doing any. She can’t hurt him too much if she doesn’t hurt him at all. She doesn’t have to stop, ever, and she never wants to.

“I was going to –“

“After. I want you.” The hand attached to her cuffed wrist, she buries in his hair. She loves his hair, the softness of it, the way it curls over her fingers. She pets him with that hand, leaves the other free to roam, wraps her legs higher around his waist. He’s trying to reposition himself, but the arm he’s resting his weight on is shaking violently with the effort of holding him over her for so long.

Voice pleading, he says, “Master, I’m trying,” and she decides to take pity on him.

“On your back,” she says, and doesn’t wait for his response before she’s rolling him over, straddling him, and her cunt presses up against his cock, and they both groan at once. The pressure, the friction, are delicious, and Missy indulges, ruts against him for a minute or so, sucking at his collarbone.

An exceptionally thorough kiss to his lips later, she’s taken him in one hand, the fingers of her other hand splayed over his chest next to the unbuckled cuff, and she’s guiding his cock to press against her folds. She’s dripping all over her own hand as she sinks down, slowly, drinking in the way his voice cracks when he says her name again. When she’s sitting on him fully, she sighs contentedly – he’s back inside her, back where he belongs, where they both belong. Together.

She rolls her hips, just to feel him move inside her, and he releases a strangled, half-coherent plea for her to do it again. His fingertips are digging into her thighs, which hurts a little bit, but she rather likes it.

Missy feeds him her wet fingers, rolls her hips again, again, and when he’s arching up against her, she starts to ride, slow and steady and gentle. He moans, and his tongue laps fervently at her fingers, which makes her go a little faster. She pulls her fingers free with some resistance and an audible _pop_.

He gasps for air and his exhale is a broken, “Thank you,” followed by another gasp, and then, “Need you, going to – Missy, stay, please –“

“I’m here. Look at me.”

The Doctor’s eyes meet hers, and something he sees makes him cry out and thrust up into her, hard. _God_ , that felt good. “Yes,” she says immediately. He does it again, his fingernails leaving angry red streaks in her skin as he claws at her thighs, all irregular movement and desperate, panting breaths.

Close. He’s close. Missy leans in, rests more of her weight against his chest, rides just slightly harder.

There it is. A high, soft, keening sound, his mouth falling open, and his eyes roll back just before the lids drift shut. He shudders, twitches, relaxes all at once, and he’s… peaceful.

Missy rides him through it, until he starts to soften, and says quietly, “You’re gorgeous like that.”

He smiles, just a tiny bit. “Did you, er –“

“I did not. You still want another turn with your mouth?”

He’s started scooting himself toward the foot of the bed even before she finishes the question. “Please,” he replies. Calmer now, smiling, hair tousled and ever-so-slightly sweaty. She crawls forward, braces herself on the headboard, eases herself into position, kneeling over his mouth. All the while, the Doctor watches her, an increasingly hungry expression replacing the serenity of before.

“Now,” she says, when she’s ready.

She watches him, because of course she does. The Doctor is lapping at the wetness on her thighs, delicately, eyes closed, and there’s no way she’d miss the sight of him like this: working his way up one thigh, the other, followed by a series of increasingly bold kisses.

She’s breathing hard, resisting the urge to drop down and simply take what she wants. It was good before, it’ll be good now. Patience.

Missy makes an embarrassingly loud appreciative sound when his tongue brushes over her folds, and the Doctor seems to have liked it, because he makes a softer sound of his own and licks at her again. Another pass, firmer, another that’s harder still, and he’s definitely going faster than he did before. Some gentle attention paid to her clit, and then he’s working his tongue into her. The Doctor makes another soft little sound, pulls away for a moment, licks his lips, and back to it.

Harder, faster than before, he’s sucking and licking at her, making those same needy noises, breaking away only to breathe and swallow, lick his lips, start again.

He keeps swallowing. Missy realizes, belatedly, what he’s doing, why he’s making the sounds – the taste, he tastes himself on her – and her cuffless hand finds its way to his hair. “Good,” she says, and her voice is way more hoarse than she’d like, but it’s hard to be all that bothered by it when the Doctor is currently eating his own come out of her, so she calls him good again, good.

She’d love him to bring her off now. Patience, Missy, let him have what he needs. She knows he’s satisfied because he kisses her cunt, the insides of both thighs, and whispers, “Thank you.”

“Welcome.”

“Will you…” He breaks off, squeezes his eyes shut a little more tightly. He’s struggling to say something, struggling to ask. Patience again. Missy waits. The Doctor says, “My mouth, it’s yours,” and kisses her folds again. His voice shaking, he asks, timid, “Take it, please?”

His hands have come to rest on her arse. She takes one, laces her fingers in his. “If you want me to stop,” she says, “let go.”

He nods, opens his mouth just a little. She lowers herself so she’s pressing against his lips, feels his tongue start working against her.

“Doctor,” she gasps. “Oh, dear Doctor, that’s very good. Yes. Ohh, good, good, good.” Missy presses herself against him a little harder, rocking her hips to drag his tongue against her, petting his hair, and his free hand running up and down her back. And _god_ , it feels good, pressure and friction where it’s needed most, his grip on her hand tightening.

His free hand stops wandering as she gets closer and closer to completion, and she knows exactly why – he seems to have focused every watt of available brain power on things to do with his tongue, his lips.

“Good,” she tells him again, “good, Doctor, that’s good, good, good, nearly there, going to come, going to come in your mouth, Doctor.”

He moans softly, lifts his head up a bit, wants more of her.

And that, she thinks, is what does it. Not the feeling, the ever-so-slight increase in pressure. It’s the knowledge that he wants her, needs her, so much. She sympathizes. She’s grinding down into him, hips jerking and stuttering, pulling a little at his hair. _I hope I’m not hurting him_ , she thinks, and then, _That’s a new thought_.

This time is faster, sharper than the last. His lips being well-sealed around her clit and sucking powerfully might have something to do with that, or the fucking before, or both. Missy comes loudly, pushes herself harder into his mouth, cries out again when she gets a light, accidental scrape of teeth for her trouble.

It’s all she can do not to rest all her weight on him, and her hands wind up clutching one of the bars of the headboard instead. The unbuckled cuff, which she’d entirely forgotten about, clinks and clatters against the bars. Good headboard, this. Maybe she should steal it.

“Legs aren’t working,” she says, and they both laugh. She kneels up just enough that he can get his head out from under her, and she flops backward onto the bed with an unspeakably satisfied sigh. “That was amazing.”

“You too,” the Doctor replies. “Er, or, same here. Also.”

“Shh, I know what you mean. That was okay, at the end? I wasn’t hurting you, was I?”

“Not at all.”

“Good,” Missy says, and means it, and smiles. With some difficulty, as her legs appear to have forgotten how movement is supposed to work, Missy starts turning herself the right way around.

The Doctor moves a little closer, hands hovering near her uncertainly. “I could, er,” he starts to say, but trails off.

“Oh. Yeah, that’d be nice, actually.”

He wraps an arm around her and pulls her the rest of the way around. Missy puts an arm around him, in case he has any ideas about backing away, and thanks him.

“My pleasure.”

“I paid for the night. You’re welcome to stay.”

“Oh. Er. Yes, that’d be good.”

“Room service? There’s a menu on the nightstand.”

He twists around and grabs it, settles back in against her. God, he feels good. They’ve gone through so many bodies, but they always seem to just _fit_ together. She drapes a leg over his waist, noses at his neck while he browses. Just as she’s about to remark that it’s taking him an awful long time, he murmurs, “You’re unbelievably distracting.”

“Am I? Okay, how about this?” She starts kissing instead of nuzzling.

“That’s _much_ worse.”

“All right, all right, I’ll hold still.” Missy rests her cheek against his chest and does her best to be un-distracting.

After a minute or so, he says, “That’s remarkable. You don’t even have to do anything, and I still can’t think when you’re around.”

“Now, Doctor, don’t blame me for the fact that you’re an idiot.”

He chuckles, kisses her hairline, then her temple. She tilts her face up towards his, and he kisses her lips, gently, with a delicate sigh. Missy loves this, loves him, loves being a need he must satisfy.

“Oh, I’ve just remembered. Where’s, ah. Here, let me get this off.” The Doctor takes her arm, gently, and removes the other cuff, drops it onto the already cluttered bedside table. He presses a delicate kiss to her exposed wrist. “There. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. And thank _you_.”

“You’re welcome.”

 

The Doctor has been putting this off. Or, rather, he’s been actively avoiding this. “This” being, of course, Gallifrey. Conscious decision. If he can’t find it here, she was lying, again, and he fell for it, again, and she hurt him, _again_ , and he doesn’t want that.

Just recently, he’s had a very fresh reminder of what it was like before it all went wrong. The Master when she was a friend, a lover, a helping hand. Maybe that’s what she is now, or at least trying to be. She might succeed. Maybe this is the first step towards that. Reconciliation, or forgiveness, or acceptance, or release. One of those, or all of them.

He can still hear her voice, just the way it sounded when she told him. He gets the sense she didn’t mean to tell him, or at least not like that, but she just had to say it. When she was defeated. Has to get her own back, has to hurt him. She always does.

Or _she_ was hurting, something went wrong and she needed something, needed to keep him around somehow. Maybe she wanted to tell him differently, maybe even bring him there herself, maybe, maybe, _maybe_.

Go. Just go. Find out.

He can still hear her voice. _Ten-zero-eleven-zero-zero by zero-two. The current coordinates of Gallifrey._

Home, but not quite. _She_ was what made it home, in many ways, especially before his children came along. Entering the coordinates, imagining her voice, makes him wish she were really here. He pauses, ready to pull the handbrake.

She wouldn’t still be there, surely? At the hotel? No. And anyway, she wouldn’t come with him, except maybe to gloat, or Gallifrey _is_ there and she wants something from him in return –

“Maybe, maybe, _maybe,”_ he says.

This is ridiculous, he shouldn’t do it. He’s not going to play her games. He erases the coordinates, walks away.

 

He comes back half an hour later, resigned to the fact that he needs to know.

_I will never let you become that hopeless again._

10-0-11-00:02. He’d actually forgotten those coordinates, for a while. The Doctor releases the handbrake, and the TARDIS takes him to where Gallifrey used to be.

_I will not leave you alone again._

He approaches the doors, opens one, looks out into empty space.

Of course.

_I am not going to hurt you, Doctor._

Some part of him, a small part, a lost part, cries out that he should just look harder. She meant it, she did. There’s something, it’s a different time, the beginning of the universe or its very end, if he could just _look_ —

The Doctor closes the door.


End file.
